Short Fiction

we did not now for one moment think of declining the interview. Mr. Molloy had so far succeeded in his stratagem that we could not now resort to the certainly not unusual practice of declaring ourselves to be too closely engaged to see anyone, and of sending him word that he should confide to writing whatever he might have to say to us. It had, too, occurred to us that, as Mr. Molloy had paid his three shillings and sixpence for the Turkish bath, he would not prove to be one of that class of visitors whose appeals to tenderhearted editors are so peculiarly painful. “I am willing to work day and night for my wife and children; and if you will use this short paper in your next number it will save us from starvation for a month! Yes, Sir, from⁠—starvation!” Who is to resist such an appeal as that, or to resent it? But the editor knows that he is bound in honesty to resist it altogether⁠—so to steel himself against it that it shall have no effect upon him, at least, as regards the magazine which is in his hands. And yet if the short thing be only decently written, if it be not absurdly bad, what harm will its publication do to anyone? If the waste⁠—let us call it waste⁠—of half-a-dozen pages will save a family from hunger for a month, will they not be well wasted? But yet, again, such tenderness is absolutely incompatible with common honesty⁠—and equally so with common prudence. We think that our readers will see the difficulty, and understand how an editor may wish to avoid those interviews with tattered gloves. But my friend, Mr. Michael Molloy, had had three and sixpence to spend on a Turkish bath, had had money wherewith to buy⁠—certainly, the very vilest of cigars. We thought of all this as Mr. Michael Molloy was ushered into our room.

The first thing we saw was the tattered glove; and then we immediately recognised the stout middle-aged gentleman whom we had seen on the other side of Jermyn Street as we entered the bathing establishment. It had never before occurred to us that the two persons were the same, not though the impression made by the poverty-stricken appearance of the man in the street had remained distinct upon our mind. The features of the gentleman we had hardly even yet seen at all. Nevertheless we had known and distinctly recognised his outward gait and mien, both with and without his clothes. One tattered glove he now wore, and the other he carried in his gloved hand. As we saw this we were aware at once that all our preconception had been wrong, that that too common appeal would be made, and that we must resist it as best we might. There was still a certain jauntiness in his air as he addressed us. “I hope thin,” said he as we shook hands with him, “ye’ll not take amiss the little ruse by which we caught ye.”

“It was a ruse then, Mr. Molloy?”

“Divil a doubt o’ that, Mr. Editor.”

“But you were coming to the Turkish bath independently of our visit there?”

“Sorrow a bath I’d’ve cum to at all, only I saw you go into the place. I’d just three and ninepence in my pocket, and says I to myself, Mick, me boy, it’s a good investment. There was three and sixpence for them savages to rub me down, and threepence for the two cheroots from the little shop round the corner. I wish they’d been better for your sake.”

It had been a plant from beginning to end, and the to kalon and the half-dozen words from Horace had all been parts of Mr. Molloy’s little game! And how well he had played it! The outward trappings of the man as we now saw them were poor and mean, and he was mean-looking too, because of his trappings. But there had been nothing mean about him as he strutted along with a blue-checked towel round his body. How well the fellow had understood it all, and had known his own capacity! “And now that you are here, Mr. Molloy, what can we do for you?” we said with as pleasant a smile as we were able to assume. Of course we knew what was to follow. Out came the roll of paper of which we had already seen the end projecting from his breast pocket, and we were assured that we should find the contents of it exactly the thing for our magazine. There is no longer any diffidence in such matters⁠—no reticence in preferring claims and singing one’s own praises. All that has gone by since competitive examination has become the order of the day. No man, no woman, no girl, no boy, hesitates now to declare his or her own excellence and capability. “It’s just a short thing on social manners,” said Mr. Molloy, “and if ye’ll be so good as to cast ye’r eye over it, I think ye’ll find I’ve hit the nail on the head. ‘The Five-o’clock Tay-table’ is what I’ve called it.”

“Oh!⁠—‘The Five-o’clock Tea-table.’ ”

“Don’t ye like the name?”

“About social manners, is it?”

“Just a rap on the knuckles for some of ’em. Sharp, short, and decisive! I don’t doubt but what ye’ll like it.”

To declare, as though by instinct, that that was not the kind of thing we wanted, was as much a matter of course as it is for a man buying a horse to say that he does not like the brute’s legs or that he falls away in his quarters. And Mr. Molloy treated our objection just as does the horse-dealer those of his customers. He assured us with a smile⁠—with a smile behind which we could see the craving eagerness of his heart⁠—that his little article was just the thing for us. Our immediate answer was of course ready. If he would leave the paper with us, we would look